


Between Here and Never

by Talullah



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 18:55:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13665192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: Dior goes off on his own and has a chance meeting.





	Between Here and Never

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Urloth (CollyWobbleKiwi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollyWobbleKiwi/gifts).



> Written for the 2018 MSV, for Urloth, who requested "What his mother rejected he shall take. Please use the words: duende, animus, ascetic, oracular, and, whirligig. Silver Haired Celegorm."
> 
> Sorry, I could not bring myself to use duende.
> 
> Many thanks to Alex for the super quick beta!

**F.A. 488**

 

“He’s too young...”

“Young for an elf, maybe, but he is a full grown man.”

“I will not have it!”

“He will do as he wants. We are his parents, not his keepers.”

Dior listened while his parents quietly talked. He was young for an elf, true, but at 18 he was a full-grown man, ready to start his life. He quietly walked away, toward his room where his knapsack awaited him. A change of clothes, a few tools, a flint-stone, and a whirligig, a curious toy his grandfather had once sent him for his tenth birthday. It was made of polished obsidian, carried all the way from the mountains of the North and transformed into a mixture of ornament, jewel and plaything by the crafty hands of Dwarves. It calmed him to make it spin, watching the black wavy contours dissolve into a perfect sphere as it spun.

Dior left his room, passed by the kitchen to grab the last meal he would have in six moons that would not be cooked by his hand, and walked out the door.

“He’ll find his death out there,” he heard his mother say to his father, as he passed under their window. He could have taken another route toward the river, but he wanted to hear them one last time, at least. He had asked for their permission to go into the woods, as all young elves did when they felt ready to become adults. His father had smiled proudly and assented with a nod. His mother’s eyes had stopped in that oracular way he knew so well and feared. And she had said the same words - ‘he’ll find his death out there.’

She had objected to his departure time and again, for three moons, while his father tried to make her come around. But his mother was scared and that scared him. Still, he wanted to go. He felt that he was ready for his travel rite. And he would have to wait another year if he let the opportunity pass now.

And so, he had given them a last plea, even as he secretly prepared his bag. And, as he heard them exchanging the same exact phrases from the last time, he had chosen to give himself permission to be an adult.

* * *

He had left in Gwirith, the first month of the year, as tradition demanded. The Adurant was still gelid, carrying ice from the Ered Luin. There were no bridges and he would not borrow one of the few boats that the people of Tol Galen kept, if it meant someone else would have to cross the glacial water to get it. 

That first moon was hard to bear. He missed home and, occasionally, regretted his silent departure, against his mother’s wishes. He knew the first month of the year was hard to bear and that prey for his dinner would be scarce. Still, when he lay awake at night, feeling hungry and cold, he wondered if it had all been a mistake. But he perservered, walking North, knowing that he was chasing the cold. He could have gone West, into the Taur-im-Duinath, where he would meet friendly faces, more warmth, and more game. But he had been there with his father once and he would rather find something new.

So he walked by day, sometimes by night too, when the moon waxed. By Nórui, he had crossed the Duilwen and had set camp by the Brilthor. He had found a little cave by the river’s margin, barely more than a rocky overhang, created by a few boulders haplessly fallen. After spending one night there and finding a fat rabbit in the copse nearby, he had decided to spend sometime there.

He had not seen a soul in two and a half moons. At first, he held conversations in his head with his parents, with his few friends. Later, by Lothron, he had started speaking to himself, mumbling through his way. Now, he just rested under the sun, enjoying the warmth, after a bath in the river. The beard on his face, the sparse hair that did not grow thick has his father’s, and which he had diligently shaved since it had first appeared, had stopped scratching. Now, it ran silky under his fingers, still fairly short, and almost pleasant.

He should care less about his appearance, he thought. The purpose of the trial was not simply for one to prove their ability to survive on their own, to test the skills their parents had imparted on them. The true purpose was for one to find detachment, to think through all the thoughts through, to call for one’s soul and come back home clean, centered, whole. Life in Tol Galen was fairly ascetic. People grew up with few excesses, but still, the half year spent away had a weight in paring down the superfluous, connecting to the world by one’s own means, and to thoroughly ground oneself.

Dior reflected on his when a low clopping started making its way from the ground to his ears. A rider! He was instantly alert. He recovered his clothes from the ground and put on his leather britches before the rider came closer. Dior waited behind a tree watching as the rider passed him by. Who was it who rode with this haste through the green grass, under the blue sky? This day was made for slowness. As if hearing his words. the rider slowed to a restless stop, turning around as he intently watched his surroundings.

“A good place to spend the night, eh, Adviron?”

The horse neighed, as if in response, and the rider hopped off. Silver hair flashed in the sun, making Dior’s fingertips tingle for no reason. He tried to think of what he should do: come out and greet the stranger? Stay hidden and hope that their paths would not cross? He was annoyed that his privacy was invaded and, at the same time, elated at the mere thought of talking to someone. He had not felt lonely for many days now, over a moon’s time, but at the sight of the stranger, he suddenly yearned for the warmest company and the quietest solitude, simultaneously.

He moved from behind the tree and walked to the stranger, who turned to face him. Dior saw him in full for the first time. The first thing that his eyes absorbed was the fair face, beautiful with it’s hard jaw, carved cheekbones, the glint of steel in the eyes, the sensuality of the mouth. The second thing he apprehended was the star of Fëanor embroidered on the left side of his jerkin. A flood of cold rage crashed through him. Silver hair and that crest - Celegorm the Fair, Celegorm, the would-be rapist, kidnapper, usurper, cruel beast abandoned even by his dog. Dior reached for his bow, almost unconsciously.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you,” Celegorm said, looking straight into the thicket, in Dior’s direction.

Dior stepped forward in to the open grass. He did himself the courtesy of not asking how Celegorm had, somehow, sensed him in his hiding. For all his great many defects, the man was, after all, one of the most reputed hunters. What was it with those sons of Fëanor that whenever some activity was mentioned, at least one of them had to be named as the hyperbolic embodiment of perfection?

Celegorm sized him up carefully, his shrewd eyes stopping at every detail. Dior felt naked. After a few moments, Celegorm spoke.

“Young. The delicate ears of an elf with the coarse beard of a man. That jet black hair, indomitable, and that mouth, cherry red, too pretty for a man’s face.” He nodded to himself. “The son of Lúthien, I presume.”

Dior said nothing and Celegorm mockingly bowed his head. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. This Arda is, indeed, too small.”

Celegorm turned his back and started unsaddling his horse. “There, boy, there,” he murmured soothingly as he moved around the animal, relieving it of its gear, wiping its sweat. He finished with a slap to its hindquarter as he urged, “Go, eat.” Adviron obeyed his master and trotted away, searching for a tender patch of grass.

Dior stood there watching, equating in his mind the improbability of the chance meeting, the need to say something, whether he should just kill that thing that stood in front of him, who was more monster than man. But he did not see a monster. No monster talked to a horse like that. So, he just stood, arms akimbo, the bow forgotten in his hand.

“Well, are you going to help?” Celegorm asked, tossing a volume in Dior’s direction. Dior had only a heartbeat to let his bow fall to the ground and catch the object.

“A trap?” he asked, speaking for the first time.

“Oh, don’t be so judgemental.” Celegorm huffed. “I never let more than one day pass before collecting them.”

Dior raised and eyebrow. The self-assured son of Fëanor justifying himself before Silvan scum, as they said the Noldor referred to them. He did have a point, though. Trapping was seen as a sign of poor skill and cruelty among his people. He turned the trap in his hands with more curiosity than distaste.

“Where do you want me to set it?” he asked, surprised at the words that left his lips of own their own accord.

“It’s not for setting. I just want to keep it away from Adviron. Even though it’s locked.”

Dior frowned to cover the unwanted smile making its way to his lips.

“Why don’t you have dogs with you?” he asked.

Celegorm huffed again, as he picked up the saddle and his knapsack from the ground. “Hounds can be a tad unfaithful,” he tersely replied.

Dior smiled. “That was, perhaps, the only exception in the history of Arda. And from what I hear, he was in the right.”

“Maybe,” Celegorm said, walking past Dior. “Are you staying under those rocks?” he asked, pointing in the general direction of Dior’s shelter.

“Yes. They are very much taken, I’m afraid,” Dior shot back. He did not want this kinslaying, lying kidnapper staying anywhere near him, not matter how fascinating he was turning out to be.

Celegorm shot him a dirty look. “Such fine hospitality.”

“Better to refuse hospitality than to force it.”

Celegorm raised an eyebrow. “Maybe one of these days you should talk to your mother to learn about how things really went down.”

Dior clenched his fists and was instantly on Celegorm. He landed the first punch on Celegorm’s left cheek, but he missed his second as Celegorm ducked, dropping everything, and tackled him into the ground. They rolled around, grappling with each other, searching for a weak spot. Dior blushed, not so much from Celegorm’s hand on his throat but from the hardness between his legs. He grabbed a fistful of silver hair and pulled hard, managing to distract Celegorm for a heartbeat, time enough to roll from under him, to straddling him. He was about to land another punch to the beautiful, contorted face of his enemy when he felt a hardness, similar to his own, against his thigh. He rose to his feet, walking back and away.

Leaning on his elbow, Celegorm wiped the blood from his lip with a thumb. Dior looked away, a shiver of desire forcing him to hold his breath. 

“The shelter is mine,” he said. “Find your own and leave in the morning.”

“It’s not your land and I am not your subject,” Celegorm said, rising to his feet. Dior glanced at him as he straightened his clothes, making a suggestive gesture as he arranged his crotch, still visibly swollen.

Dior shook his head and walked away, toward his shelter.

“You walk like her, you know,” Celegorm said, his voice growing louder as Dior gained distance. “That same animus,” he added in a quieter tone, still loud enough for Dior to hear it.

* * *

The night was restless. Dior ate the cold leftovers of the rabbit he had caught the night before. He heard Celegorm moving around, in the distance, talking to his horse, singing some tune in Quenya (why had he not paid more attention when his mother had tried to teach it to him?). Then he heard silence. Frogs, crickets, owls, a wolf in the distance, but not his enemy. He felt himself hardening again at the thought of their fight, their engorged cocks rubbing through the cloth, Celegorm’s self-satisfied smile. He grabbed himself hard, wishing his erection away but it only made it worse.

When morning came, he was exhausted. He finally fell asleep when the first larks sang. It seemed that no time had passed, when he was woken by Celegorm’s voice.

“Fried fish for breakfast.”

Dior moaned and turned to his side. However, the delicious smell carried inside the cave and his stomach grumbled. He sat up, his head heavier than a rock, his shoulders slumped. Fried fish. He nodded to himself. A peace offering. Celegorm might be scum but he was an elf, and, despite all, on the side of good, against Morgoth.

He rose and walked out of the cave, to find Celegorm holding a frying pan in his hand. The smell was delicious as was the smug half-grin on Celegorm’s face. Dior noticed, with a shiver of pleasure, that his left cheek had turned bluish. Served him right.

He turned back and walked into the cave.

“Wait!” Celegorm said. “That’s not very polite!”

Dior reemerged from the cave with a bottle in his hand. 

“What’s that?” Celegorm asked.

“Wine. I’ve been saving it.”

“For a special occasion?”

Dior laughed. “I wouldn’t call having breakfast with my mother’s abductor a special occasion but if you need it to boost your ego, fine.”

Celegorm shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Fine, insult me all you want. Where shall we eat?”

Dior walked toward the path to the right of the cave and they climbed up the rocks until they reached a plateau.

“Nice view,” Celegorm commented. Dior sat down and looked in to the far horizon. The morning was turning hot already, but the weather had not yet dried the grassland. The sky was fiercely blue and waves upon waves of green undulated before his eyes. He saw a hare up in the distance and focused on it as Celegorm sat by his side and placed the pan before them.

They reached for the fish at the same time. Dior noticed how Celegorm’s fingernails were as dirty as his own. It felt good, not to be a prince, just to be out here, free, wild, untamed. He ate with his hands, relishing the grease, the intense flavour, the salt - Celegorm did have a heavy hand on the seasoning and was not afraid to let the fish fry a little too much, creating a delicious crunchy layer around it.

“Perfect,” he said, as he reached for the second morsel. 

“Hand me that wine, will you,” Celegorm replied.

Dior chuckled to himself as he obeyed. Celegorm was so full of himself that he did not even think of thanking him for the compliment.

Celegorm whirled the bottle, trying to assess how much wine there was, then pulled the cork and took a little sip, moving it around in his mouth. He smacked his lips and drank deeply.

“Hey, leave some for me!” Dior protested with a snigger.

Celegorm handed him the bottle while still holding the liquid in his mouth, moving it around. Dior took a gulp, watching intently Celegorm’s shameless appreciation of the wine. He reached for the third piece of fish.

“You certainly woke up early,” he remarked just to break the silence.

Celegorm smiled, looking into the distance. “Ever made love under the midday sun?” he asked.

Dior’s whole boady clenched. “No,” he uttered. His experiences had been few, far in between, and not something he’d call making love, despite the sweetness that there might have been.

“It gives you a nasty sunburn in your buttocks,” Celegorm replied. “And a fucking hangover. Hand me the wine.”

Dior passed him the bottled. 

“Good stuff,” Celegorm said after taking a draught. “It’s not as rich as the stuff we had in Amman but it’s certainly much better than what we can grow up north,” he said, pointing with his chin in the general direction in front of him. “Too little warmth.”

Dior remained silent. He wanted to think about wine and agriculture and ask a few questions about Amman, but all that revolved around his head were images of Celegorm’s naked body, white skin touching his ruddier, silver hair falling over his face, slipping into his mouth as they kissed and moved against each other. He shifted, trying to discreetly hide the bulge in his crotch.

Celegorm licked his fingers, took another sip of wine and laid back on the rock, reveling in the sun. “I could sleep right here, right now,” he sighed.

Dior realized that Celegorm had had as little sleep as himself the night before.

“The day is warming,” he said, taking off his jerking and then his shirt. He laid them down on the stone and stretched himself over them, the warmth of the stone rising through the clothes, reaching the skin of his back. If Celegorm were to look at him right now, he’d see the telling mound on his groin, but Dior did not care. 

They lay in silence for a long time. Then Celegorm sat up and took his shirt off. Dior was no longer hard and did not try to move. Then Celegorm rose to his feet and took off the rest of his clothes as Dior watched, unabashedly.

“Does it bother you that I am naked?” he asked, as an afterthought.

Dior noticed that he was half hard.

“No.”

“Do you want to be nude too? We can catch some sun, then swim in the river. I reek like Morgoth’s filthy balls.”

Dior recoiled not so much at the image but at the raw hate behind the casually dispensed curse. Still, he took his boots and his leggings off without rising up. Then he laid back and closed his eyes. Engraved in his eyelids, he could still see Celegorm’s body, the finely defined muscles of his abdomen, the dust of brownish hair above his cock. He swallowed the knot on his throat. He knew what he was doing when, with his eyes still closed, he took himself in hand and started pulling softly. Celegorm moved silently, but his shadow fell over Dior, and, before Celegorm’s mouth was upon his, then trailing down to his cock, Dior knew, just knew his gambit had worked. Soft hair fell on his skin, an expert mouth worked him senseless while a strong, hard hand cupped his balls so tight it almost hurt.

Suddenly, he pushed Celegorm away, opening his eyes for the first time. He expected a smug grin, but instead he saw a question.

He sat up and reached his hand to Celegorm’s cock. “I didn’t want to come too soon,” he said, as his hand worked. Celegorm cupped his face with his hands and kissed him on the moth, lips warm, tongue wet and hungry.

When the kiss broke, Dior stared into his eyes. “Tastes like fish.” 

“So does your cock. You should wash your hands after your meals,” Celegorm replied, his face too serious to carry the joke well. Still, Dior laughed, pushed him back, crawled over him to kiss him again, rub against him, take him into his mouth.

* * *

Celegorm stayed for a moon. They fucked, hunted, talked, fought, made love, sung, told tales, fucked. Dior felt alive, infatuated, in love, in something. He also knew it would end, had to, but he did not dwell on it. He had his land, his family waiting for him, ready to soothe any emptiness he might feel.

Much later, when all was more buried than forgotten, and after he had given himself entirely to a new love, to a family of his own, he found himself running, sword in hand, among fire, terror, blood and death. As he ran past a fallen body, red smearing silver, he felt a jolt, turned his face for a second, to see, one last time, that face that had come to his dreams so many times. Celegorm was not dead yet. Blood gushed from his open side.

“Please,” he said. “Please.”

“You have no right to ask,” Dior said. They were not the same, nothing was the same or would ever be. Still, there was no hate in him, only sorrow. 

Celegorm’s lips moved again, in silent plea.

Dior looked him in the eyes, knelt by his side, and, while he held Celegorm’s head with his left hand, joining their foreheads, with his right, he found his dagger and conceded Celegorm his last wish.

_Finis  
February 2018_

**Author's Note:**

> Gwirith = April  
> Nórui = June  
> Lothron = May


End file.
